


Buried Alive

by Quallian42



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Buried Alive, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quallian42/pseuds/Quallian42
Summary: A fill for "Bad Things Happen Bingo" prompt: Buried AliveGeralt learns that Jaskier is dangerously ill, but doesn't reach him in time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658455
Comments: 10
Kudos: 545





	Buried Alive

**Author's Note:**

> While this is a stand alone story, it takes place in a vague universe where Geralt and Jaskier are lovers, and Jaskier is friendly with the other Witchers. Eventually they will all have a part.

The wind tore through Geralt’s hair and stung his eyes, as he led Roach into a gallop. There was no time. The sun would be setting soon and if they didn’t make it to the village, if they lost the light, they would be forced to stop until dawn. He swiped angrily at his eyes and leaned further forward against the mare’s neck.  
It was Jaskier. Of course. They had not seen each other for a few months. Geralt on The Path, Jaskier in the courts or traveling from inn to inn, until they drifted back together through chance. He hadn’t expected to meet him until winter set in and they made their way to Kaer Morhan.  
Geralt had not even known the bard was in the area until a young woman approached him at the tavern. At first, he had thought she had another contract, or was simply grateful that he had dispatched a pack of drowners earlier in the day. Instead she had asked if he was Jaskier’s Witcher. There was an illness, she had said, in her village. Young and old alike struck down, first by a cough, weakness in the limbs, then a fever. Some lived, some died, with no pattern or meaning. When she had left, the bard had been coughing.  
Almost before she had stopped talking, Geralt had saddled Roach, no thought in his mind but going to his lover. Jaskier was healthy, young enough. Years of traveling together had made him hearty. If a bruxa or kikimore couldn’t kill him, how did a simple cold think it had a chance?  
But Geralt could protect him against a kikimora. Had, on several occasions, been the only thing standing between Jaskier and death. What could he do against illness? Ferry him to an herbalist, give him teas? According to the girl, that had already been tried. She had been sent to search for other healers, ones that might be more knowledgeable.  
What could he do?

The last of the daylight had guttered out just as they reached the edge of the small town, and the simple stable that leaned against an inn. Roach’s sides heaved and Geralt patted at her neck apologetically.  
“The Bard?” He demanded of the first person he saw, a young stable hand who was approaching them warily. The boy’s gaze flicked to the wolf pendant and the double swords at Geralt’s back. He met his eyes and Geralt could read the answer in the sorrowful face.  
“I’m sorry.” The stable hand said quietly.  
Geralt felt something shatter deep within his chest. He slid from Roach’s back. There was no hurry now.  
“Early yesterday morning. It was…. quick. We buried him properly. We all admired him, Master Witcher, thought it was only proper.” The boy reached out, taking Roach’s reins from lax hands. “Let me get her settled for you. He…he paid for the room in advance. It’s been cleaned. You look like you could use the rest. Go inside” The voice was gentle, as if the Witcher was one the stable hand’s horses that needed to be gentled.  
“Where is he?” The words hitched in Geralt’s throat.  
The stable hand pointed towards a small hill, and even if the darkness he could see, smell, the mounds of fresh earth.  
“under the Magnolia. Just there.”  
Geralt nodded, absently freeing his coin pouch from his belt and handing it over, heedless of the heavy weight of coins. “Take care of her. Give her the best you have.” He ignored the stable hand’s protests, concerned only with the quiet hill.

The cemetery was quiet, but not empty. Fresh graves dotting the ground by the dozen. By the gate, two men dug another in silence. They glanced up as he passed, and quickly looked away.  
Geralt ignored them. He barely made it to Jaskier’s grave before his legs abandoned him, sending him crashing onto the damp earth. A whittled stob, carved with the bard’s name marked the space. Small weedy bouquets gathered around it. Geralt remembered the last time they had passed through the village together and the gaggle of children that had followed Jaskier around like little ducklings.  
a familiar lute was propped against the trunk of the nearby tree. Hair ribbons tied around the neck. Someone had left a mug of ale. Jaskier had many admirers here.  
“Fuck, Jask.”  
A fever. Of all the stupid, ridiculous, mundane things. A fever had taken his Jaskier away from him.  
He reached out, touching the muddy petals of a wilted dandelion. For a long time, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely breathe through the pain. It began to rain. Behind him, the men finished one grave, and started another.  
Hours passed before he found his voice again.  
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”  
He could imagine his lover’s scoff. “Don’t be an idiot.” Jaskier would say. “You couldn’t have known.”  
They had been together so long that Geralt knew how the conversation would go. Had gone before. He would blame himself. Jaskier would defend him from his own words. Would snap or soothe. Would distract him with graceful hands and a skilled speech, pulling Geralt out of his self-deprecation.  
Geralt could almost feel him. Could almost smell him. A mix of chamomile, sweat and resin. He could almost hear his quiet breaths, his heartbeat, slowed by sleep. He could almost hear…  
Not almost. He stretched his senses, pushing deep into the earth below him.

He could hear. A heartbeat, muffled, slow but strong. Whispery breaths, a moan.  
“Jask? Oh fuck. Jask!”  
Geralt stumbled to his feet, searching wildly for the men who had been here earlier. They were gone, but their tools were left behind. Rope, a ladder, shovels. He ran, snatching one up and stumbling back. Wet earth flew under the sharp edge of the metal. Rain poured into his face, blinding him.  
“Hold on Jaskier. You’re fine. It’s okay.” He kept up the mantra as he dug, as if Jaskier could hear him under…under the ground. In a gods damned pine box. He had to stop every few minutes, straining to hear a heartbeat or a breath.  
He dug. And dug. Kept digging as the rain slowed and stopped. By the time his shovel scraped wood, he felt like he had been digging for centuries. Geralt dropped to his knees, kneeling at the bottom of a deep hole, on top of Jaskier’s coffin.  
The thin wood buckled and splintered as he ripped it away, revealing the body, the man underneath. The top half of the coffin lid sailed out of the premature grave.  
Geralt stilled, hesitated, reached out, cupping a dirty hand to the bard’s cheek.  
Jaskier was still, quiet, chilled. But not cold. Not silent. Not…dead. His normal chamomile and resin scent tinged with the sourness of a broken fever. The first fingers of dawn stretched over his face.  
With a soft moan, Jaskier turned his head, seeking out the warmth of his lover’s palm. Lashes fluttered, cloudy blue eyes peeking up at the concerned Witcher.  
“Geralt?” The name was a question and Geralt didn’t hesitate, shifting his grip to Jaskier’s shoulder and pulling him up and out of the crude wooden box. He pulled the limp, living body tight to him, running his hands over Jaskier’s hair, kissing any skin he could reach.  
Against his chest, he felt his lover’s heart tripping into a fast-staccato rhythm as realization dawned.  
“Geralt?” Jaskier held on to the Witcher with a weak grip.  
“You’re okay.” Geralt promised. “You’re fine. I’m here.” He tucked Jaskier’s head against his neck. “I’m here.”

Geralt had taken Jaskier away as soon as he could, refusing the stay in the town any longer than absolutely necessary. The healer had pronounced Jaskier well, in need of rest and food, sleep and a quiet place to recover.  
But not there. The Witcher did not trust that his weakened lover wouldn’t get sick again in the village. So, he had bundled Jaskier up, set him atop Roach and left.  
Now they sat in a large hot bath, in a different inn, a different town. Jaskier was curled up against Geralt’s chest, dozing, exhausted by the illness and the knowledge that he had come so very close to dying six feet under the ground.  
Geralt lifted the rag again, soothing warm water over Jaskier’s back in slow strokes, smiling as the young man hummed contentedly.  
Others had not been so lucky. Though he had not stayed in the village, word had traveled. A few people had been pulled out of the ground still breathing, more had been found dead, fingers shredded, fresh blood gouged into their coffin lids. Most had died in earnest when the fever took hold.  
“Stop it.” Jaskier muttered against his chest. “Stop thinking so loud.”  
Geralt huffed and pressed a kiss to the top of the bard’s head. “I should have been there.”  
“You couldn’t have known.” Jaskier stretched, slightly, adjusting and slipping further into the warm water. “You’re here now. You saved me. Now hush. You’re being very noisy for a pillow.”  
“Hmm” Geralt wouldn’t be so dissuaded so eaily.  
Jaskier sighed and wriggled around so that he could straddle Geralt’s lap, he took his face in his hands. “It’s okay Geralt. I’m here.” He punctuated each declaration with a soft kiss.  
“I’m fine. I’m okay. I haven’t left you.” He rested his forehead against Geralt’s.  
“You saved me.”


End file.
